“I assure you,” Anne said, smiling faintly, with a gentleness almost sharpness, “my reflections are rarely improved by having them arranged for me.”
For the briefest instant, something passed across Mrs. Younge’s face—not enough to be called displeasure, but sufficient to prove that submission had not been mistaken for affection. It vanished almost at once beneath renewed civility.
“Your judgement, Miss de Bourgh, must always be superior to mine in what concerns your own comfort,” she said, with a bow that was respectful enough to prevent contradiction. “I only endeavour to serve where I may.”
Elizabeth, who had seldom witnessed opposition conducted with such quiet precision, admired Anne more in that moment than she had done in an hour of confidence. There was courage in restraint when restraint had long been mistaken for weakness.
The young maid, having finished her office, hesitated only a fraction too long before withdrawing, and in that hesitation Elizabeth observed a quick, uncertain glance directed first toward Mrs. Younge, and then toward Anne—as though fear and loyalty had not yet determined which should govern her more strongly.
The girl curtsied and departedat once. Mrs. Younge followed more slowly, after one last measured look at the room, as thoughassuring herself that nothing had been said there which ought not to have been said at all.
When the door closed behind her, Anne reached quietly for her cup, though she did not immediately drink.
“You see, Miss Bennet,” she said, after a pause, and with no bitterness beyond what truth required, “how very carefully Rosings is managed.
***
The quiet confidence of the parlour did not survive long. Before Elizabeth could frame a reply, and before Anne had quite recovered that composed reserve which followed any moment of unguarded sincerity, the sound of wheels upon the gravel announced the return of the carriage from Hunsford, followed almost immediately by voices in the hall and the brisk, unmistakable movement of servants restoring the house to that formal order which seemed always to accompany Lady Catherine’s presence.
Anne’s expression altered at once into that habitual self-command which long practice had rendered nearly instinctive. The softness of private confidence withdrew behind the familiar discipline of Rosings, and though nothing in her posture became cold, there was again that careful composure which belonged less to her nature than to her circumstances.
“Mama and the vicar are back with your cousin, Miss Bennet,” she said, with a slight sadness she did not attempt to disguise.
Elizabeth inclined her head in acknowledgment, but said nothing.
The door opened scarcely a moment later, and Mrs. Younge re-entered with that smooth propriety of manner which seemed less the result of good breeding than of constant observation. Behind her came Lady Catherine herself, speaking as she entered, and with that full assurance of being heard which habit and rank had made inseparable from her.
Mr. Collins followed close behind, looking at once important and fatigued, as though the distinction of being useful to Rosings had imposed upon him labours equal to his gratitude, while Mr. Wickham, who entered last, carried himself with an ease so perfectly regulated that it might, to a less attentive eye, have passed for natural modesty rather than studied address.
Lady Catherine paused upon seeing Elizabeth still with Anne, and though her ladyship’s approval was seldom bestowed without qualification, she seemed, for the present, disposed to be satisfied.
“So, Miss Bennet, you have not yet deserted us,” she said, taking her place with the air of one resuming possession rather than joining company. “I am glad of it, for Anne has too little society that is tolerable, and I have always maintained that young women are improved by frequent society with persons whose habits are superior to their own.”
Elizabeth, who had long since learned that contradiction at Rosings was an exercise of limited utility, replied with all proper civility.
“I have found the morning most agreeable, your ladyship,” she said, with that composed ease which concealed amusement far better than open wit would have done. “Miss de Bourgh has been kind enough to make Rosings infinitely more entertaining than ceremony alone could ever promise.”
“I do not doubt it,” returned Lady Catherine. “Hunsford has been quite occupied. Mr. Collins required our direction in several particulars, and Mr. Wickham has shown a very commendable readiness in understanding where improvements are necessary. A clergyman who comprehends order is of infinitely more use than one who confines himself to sermons.”
Mr. Collins bowed so deeply at this praise, though it was not addressed to him, that he appeared in danger of overcoming his balance.
“Your ladyship’s judgement,” he said, “must ever remain the first principle of order wherever it is permitted to operate, and if I have shown the smallest usefulness, it is only because I have had the inestimable advantage of observing excellence at so near a distance.”
Lady Catherine accepted this tribute as a thing no more surprising than the weather, and turned instead toward Wickham, who stood at an easy distance, sufficiently respectful to please her without seeming servile.
“Mr. Wickham understands,” she continued, “that efficiency must precede ornament. There are gentlemen who think only of appearances; I prefer those who know that estates, like minds, must first be governed before they may be admired. He has been particularly attentive to the inventories at Hunsford, and has spared Mr. Collins a great deal of unnecessary confusion.”
Wickham inclined his head with a modesty so well performed that it would have deceived many.
“Your ladyship is too good to suppose me deserving of such approbation. I have merely endeavoured to prevent inconvenience where a little method might preserve it. In houses where alterations are frequent, valuable things have a way ofbecoming temporarily invisible, and it is always better, I think, to know precisely where everything rests.”
Elizabeth glanced almost involuntarily toward Anne, whose expression did not change, though there was in her stillness something far more eloquent than reply. She thought then of the missing silver, of Mrs. Jenkinson sent away for ‘her health’, and of the quiet bitterness beneath Anne’s calm voice, and found Wickham’s agreeable manner less easy to admire than perhaps it had once appeared.
Before she could reflect further, the door opened again, and Mr. Darcy entered with her father.
The alteration in the room was slight, yet immediate.
Darcy’s countenance retained its usual composure, but there was something in the stillness of it which made Elizabeth attentive at once. Whatever had passed between him and Mr. Bennet in the library had not been insignificant. Her father, too, though perfectly at ease in appearance, possessed that particular air of quiet observation which usually signified that he knew more than he intended immediately to disclose.
